


Rude Awakenings

by moenochrome



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Circle Mage Hawke, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moenochrome/pseuds/moenochrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the rude awakenings Varric has had in his life, this was…</p>
<p>Not too bad, actually. He could stand, in more ways than one, waking up to an attractive lady in Circle robes straddling him. It would be better if she was a naked dwarf and didn’t have a pointy staff directed straight at his forehead, but Varric’s the type of person who’ll take what he can get.</p>
<p>(Alternatively, in which things are a lot less tragic and a lot more absurd.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rude Awakenings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calysto1395](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calysto1395/gifts).



> I TOOK "CIRCLE MAGE HAWKE" AND RAN WITH IT.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! ;v; /

Life in the Gallows was dreadfully dull before Meredith’s meddling, but Marian would have honestly preferred dullness to _this_. If it wasn’t someone turning into an abomination out of desperation, it was someone else being made tranquil to set an example. The latter was becoming so frequent that they might as well slide it right into the mages’ weekly schedule.

‘Tranquility Thursday’ has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?

No, scratch that. They made enough adjustments to their schedule as is. Worse of all was how rarely they received their letters now. They were lucky to receive it once a month, _if_ they received it at all.

She tried not to look relieved when the templar shoved the rolled-up parchment into her hands—err, parchment _s_? Seems she was rather popular today. The first letter was the usual from Bethany and mother. Though the Amell seal looked intact, she had no doubts the templars had already perused its contents thoroughly. The second letter lacked a seal, but had Carver’s name scrawled on it.

Maker, Kirkwall might just implode this very second.

Carver only wrote out of necessity or in the rare case of him actually missing her. Considering his last letter wasn’t more than six months ago, this was likely something more urgent. She quietly tucked both letters under her robes, planning to read them once she was in bed and far from the templars’ discretion.

 

The first thing Carver did when he found out Marian was going to turn herself into the Circle was cry. That was also the second and third thing he did, but, to be fair, he couldn’t have been older than eleven and Bethany had been crying right alongside him. Afterwards, he gave her a hug and they decided to spend the night coming up with a secret code. It was a very childish, spur of the moment thing, but she was rather glad they wound up doing it.

His seemingly harmless and sometimes nonsensical letters were far more meaningful than any of the templars could possibly know.

_This_ particular letter was so critical it led her straight out of the Gallows long before morning broke.

This wasn’t her first time escaping, and it certainly won’t be her last. Wiser people have done stupider things, and Marian never claimed to be wise—hence she should get away with doing even _more_ stupid things.

Most importantly, she had a “meeting” with a certain Varric Tethras to get to.

 

Of all the rude awakenings Varric has had in his life, _this_ was…

Not too bad, actually. He could stand, in more ways than one, waking up to an attractive lady in Circle robes straddling him. It would be better if she was a naked dwarf and didn’t have a pointy staff directed straight at his forehead, but Varric’s the type of person who’ll take what he can get.

“I’m sorry about this. I really am, but unfortunately for both you _and_ me, I need to make sure you stay quiet.” She said, giving her staff a quick twirl as if to emphasize her advantage. His gaze trailed up her arm, rested on her chest for a second, and then shot straight up to her face. “I’ve heard that people are least talkative when they’re dead. Pity. I imagine they’re the ones with the most interesting stories.”

There was a strip of crimson paint across the bridge of her nose, which was currently wrinkled in disgust. She wasn’t a frequent visitor to the Hanged Man then. People usually got used to the fetid mixture of rat piss and rot the third time around, or at least better at hiding their distaste.

“ _Messere,_ I promise you I have plenty more interesting stories to tell while I’m still alive.” His voice was thick with humor, and he was grinning up at her even though her staff was close enough to his eye that she might just accidentally blind him if she sneezed.

“So I’ve heard!” Her shit-eating grin _almost_ rivaled his. “Varric Tethras, charming storyteller by day, _terribly_ nosy dwarf by night.”

“You know me and you still want to kill me? I’m offended.”

It would be easy enough to reach for the dagger under his pillow and take a swing at her. If she dodged, he’d gain enough time and distance to get Bianca locked and loaded. But there were several reasons why he did not initiate an all-out brawl. He liked his room the way it was and didn’t plan to decorate it with scorch marks and bloodstains.

“I assure you, it’s really nothing personal.”

“Alright, _sure_.” Varric scoffed before he began brushing her staff to the side in a manner so casual she couldn’t even process it. He spoke before she could reassert herself, “I’m going to save both of us some time and guess that you’re here because I heard something I shouldn’t have. But, luckily for me, you’re a reasonable person and willing to negotiate, right?”

Experiencing an equal amount of confusion and curiosity, she responded cautiously, “Right.”

“Do you drink?”

“What?”

“Do you drink?”

“Well, _no_. The Circle is fairly convinced magic and alcohol do not mix.” She slowly removed herself from his person. “ _But_ that doesn’t mean I plan to turn down an offer.”

 

And that’s how Marian ended up drinking with a shirtless dwarf.

What an absurd sentence. On the off chance of the Circle finding out about her little escapade and forcing the truth out of her, they’d probably still think she was lying.

As far as first impressions went, well… he snored like father’s mabari and had enough chest hair to rival him. She met a few dwarves when she was young and has since seen them in the Gallows occasionally. Now that she has grown and was up close to one, she had to admit he was a lot, hm, _stumpier_ than she expected. She also wondered if sleeping in nothing but trousers was a dwarven thing. Would it be offensive to ask? Only the _really_ daring slept in their delicates at the Circle. Some templars might take their lack of clothing as an invitation.

After climbing off of him, she watched him like the Hawke she was, staff at the ready. Granted, she may have watched him a bit too hard. She’s seen shirtless men before, but mages were… spindly. This dwarf had a bulkier caricature, and if she had to be truthful, it was quite pleasing to the eye. She lost herself for a moment watching how his back muscles rippled when he bent down to reach for his pants.

His teasing comment about how he should charge for allowing her to watch as he put some pants on returned her to reality. She _almost_ set those very pants on fire when he reached for his crossbow—it was a curious device, unlike any crossbow she’s seen before. She supposed it made some sense then when he revealed its name was Bianca.

“She might get jealous if I drink with a pretty lady without her there.”

And why not name it? She’s a beauty.

Marian decided to play along.

When they reached the counter and he pulled out one bottle and two glasses, she asked, “ _Just_ two glasses? What about Bianca? Don’t tell me you plan to just pour it directly on her.”

A horrified gasp broke past his lips, “What kind of a nug licker would pour a drink on a _lady_? Bianca doesn’t drink this early, thank you very much. It’s bad for her complexion.”

She was grinning like an idiot—she couldn’t help out. You just don’t meet anybody _fun_ in the Circle.

The drink he poured and held out for her wound up being his own after she snatched the bottle out of his palm and poured it into the empty glass. She knew better than to let a rogue pour a drink for her—not out of any real experience, but based on all the novels she’s read.

“Cheers.” He lifted his cup and she lifted hers. Then he downed his cup steadily while she sniffed hers.

After a slow sip and a violent gag, she said, “This tastes like shit.” The she took another sip and gagged again, “I like it. What is it?”

Varric shrugged, “No idea. They don’t label the bottles. Here’s hoping it’s not rat poison.”

“Huh.” She took a bolder gulp this time and briefly hoped that the tingling in her throat was temporary. “I’m curious. Are you always this welcoming to the people who try to kill you?”

“No, but I know you weren’t _really_ going to kill me.”

It was true, but she found it disheartening just how easily he saw through her. She should work on being more menacing, maybe then the templars would keep at least ten paces away from her.  “How’d you know?”

“You could have killed me when I was still asleep.” He stated bluntly.

“Good point.” Marian nodded. She finished her drink in one go, poured herself seconds, and started explaining, “So you may have heard something of interest about the Hawkes—or the Amells. Whatever they call us nowadays.”

The family name of an apostate wasn’t exactly _noble_. Mother was lucky enough her parents came to accept her marriage.

“I have.” He said. The ‘go on’ was implicit when he brought his glass to his lips.

It wasn’t clear from Carver’s letter just how the rumor began, but she only needed to know what the rumor entailed: that the Hawke family birthed not just one, but two mages. He assured her the original source was dealt with—she just had to tie the loose ends.

“In return for you keeping your mouth shut, I am offering you my services.”

He was looking at her like she just claimed to be Andraste. “Your services.”

“I am a mage, you know— _and_ one of the best you’ll find in Kirkwall.” She swung her glass to the side dramatically. “Want to spice up a party with some magic tricks? I can do that. Need some nuisances dealt with? I can do that too.” Her other hand was placed delicately on her chest. “I’ll do anything short of blood magic.”

There was a long pause while Varric took this into consideration.

Worse comes to worse, she _could_ bribe him. That wasn’t preferable, though. Her family might be noble but they weren’t exactly rolling in sovereigns. By the time her mother found out the estate was hers, Gamlen had already spent a great deal of the Amell fortune on alcohol, prostitutes, and Maker knows what else.

He responded, “Alright. Just so we’re clear, I wasn’t planning to do anything with the information. I try not to get involved with the whole mage-templar shebang. It tends to get real messy real fast.”

Good man. “Cheers to that. Too bad _I_ can’t help but be involved.” She held her glass out. This seemed like a proper time for an introduction, “Marian Hawke.”

“Well, you already know, but…” He clinked their glasses together. “Varric Tethras.”

 

Alcohol, Marian learned, could really close the distance between people. Maybe if the templars and mages just sat down and had a drink together, they’d learn to see each other’s side and wouldn’t be at each other’s throats all the time. Ah, well, a mage could dream.

“You’re shitting me!” His rumbly, hearty laughter filled the Hanged Man.

“Nope. There _really_ is about a dozen mages risking tranquility just to smuggle _your_ books in.” After saying that, she got up from her seat. “Well, not that this hasn’t been pleasant—it has been _spectacular_. I have to get going or _I’ll_ be the one risking tranquility. I’ll see you… sometime.”

Another thing Marian learned about alcohol was that she had a low tolerance for it. It took her two steps from the table before she suddenly leaned to one side. She managed to save herself with one long, ungraceful stride.

“You sure you’re going to be alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Then she fell going out the door.

 

Marian knew for certain that there were a handful of templars who had it out for her. She had the tendency of tripping the grouchy ones when they tried to push past her to the top of the stairs. There was nothing quite as humorous as watching a man clad in armor collapse into a heap of metal and try to collect himself afterwards. Unfortunately for them, she was practically untouchable. For one, she came from a noble family. For two, she has been in the Circle for almost seventeen years. They would have a _lot_ to answer to if she was suddenly made her tranquil.

_If_ they caught her sneaking out, that would be reason enough to cut her connection from the Fade. It was never something she planned to make a habit out of, but she wasn’t as afraid of Tranquility as she was of boredom.

And talking with Varric Tethras just proved to be _very_ entertaining.

When they weren’t exchanging letters, she would pay him a visit. She made herself promise never to visit more than twice a month. He told her stories and she showed him magic tricks. It was a welcome break from the life Marian had become far too accustomed to. She even enjoyed the occasional oddity here and there, like her almost setting the Hanged Man on fire and them fighting off some dwarven merchants that Varric had upset somehow.

“Hey, Hawke.” He said one day, over a game of Wicked Grace. “I got a question about that strip…” Using his thumb, he drew a line across his own nose.

“This?” She reached up to touch it. “Ah, it was my father’s habit. I just imitated him.”

He looked up from his cards, thinking he may have touched upon a sensitive topic, “Was?”

Marian nodded, “We haven’t heard from him in almost three years. If I wasn’t tied to the Circle, I would be out looking for him.”

“Why’d you turn yourself into the Circle anyway?”

“Someone found out there was a mage in my family. I chose to go so that my little sister, Bethany, wouldn’t have to.”

Varric gave a short, humorless laugh, “You would go that far for your siblings, huh?”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“Oh, _I_ would. Don’t know about Bartrand though. I think he’d willingly sell me for twenty sovereigns.”

“What?” She said, feigning shock. “Twenty sovereigns? That’s… _generous_. I’d sell Carver for two.”

In return for her telling him about her family, he told her about his family, and about how Bartrand recently and stupidly pawned off their noble caste pin for money towards the Deep Roads expedition.

 

He never expected her to bring part of her family over for a _visit_.

From the clothes they wore—too poofy to be comfortable and without a wrinkle in sight—it was obvious they were nobles. That was questionable though. No self-respecting noble would deign to go to Lowtown, much less the Hanged Man.

“Varric, meet Bethany.” Marian gestured towards her sister, who was currently glancing around the tavern with awe. Then she pointed at her brother, who stood with his arms crossed and his head tilted upwards just enough to convince himself of his noble status. The Hanged Man obviously didn’t suit his tastes. “Carver.”

“ _Carve_ her? But I hardly even know her!”

That went right over Bethany’s head, but Carver’s expression shifted to one of even deeper distaste. “This is the dwarf you keep talking about? It would have been better if you killed him.”

“Don’t say that.” Bethany chastised, thwacking him lightly on the shoulder. The light slap must have hurt his tender, noble flesh quite a bit, judging from the way he shyly reached over to rub the afflicted area afterwards.

The boy caught sight of Norah at that moment and waved her down, “A drink, please.”

“None for me. Just water…” Bethany was about to add, until she noticed Marian looking straight at her and shaking her head fervently. “On second thought, I’m fine. Thank you.”

She just as cheerful and polite as Marian described—Sunshine, Varric decided.

Once Norah was off, Marian turned to Carver and whispered, “Aren’t you too young to drink?”

“I’m nineteen!” Now he was a nursing a bruised arm _and_ a bruised ego. Varric decided on his nickname too: Junior.

“Really?” She sounded genuinely shocked. “What happened to seventeen? Oh, don’t give me that.” She was referring to the sour look he wore. “I’ll have you know it is difficult keeping track of little sibling’s ages, and there are _two_ of you.”

“We’re twins! We’re the same age!”

She waved her hand dismissively, “All I need to remember is that you’re both younger than me.”

He looked like he had just about one hundred things to retort with, but Norah stepped in just in time.

“Settle down, Junior.” Varric said, and Carver’s anger was immediately redirected his way. “The drinks are here.”

 

The day Varric finally requested her services took her by surprise.           

It had been almost a year since they met—or has it been more than a year? Marian had difficulty gauging time when she wasn’t actively thinking about it. She once set a training dummy on fire just to count how many seconds it took to go out. For the record, it took three hundred and sixty-seven seconds, give or take ten, before a templar got scared and dumped a bucket of water on it.

“You want to escape the Circle, right?” He said. “Come with me to the Deep Roads.”

“… _Brilliant_.” Marian blurted. “The Circle will have no hold over me if I _die_.”

He snorted, “Just shut up and listen. They aren’t crazy enough to chase you into the Deep Roads. With the fortune we gain, you can bribe one of the greedy templars to destroy your phylactery.”

 

And that’s how Marian wound up going to the Deep Roads.

Another absurd sentence—she should be more concerned about what direction her life was going. It was all starting to become just as ridiculous as the tales Varric told—it’s no wonder he started featuring her in some of them.

Except it wasn’t _quite_ as quick as a sentence. Varric had to assure her the expedition would be as bountiful as he said it was. There was also a lot of boring preparation that went into it, and she preferred not to mull on the dull things.

The short of it was that she had to fund the expedition. That was no problem. She earned what any resident of Darktown would have considered a small fortune fighting thugs with Varric after dark. The rest of the coin she hesitantly borrowed from her mother. It took a _lot_ of convincing, but she played the “would you rather see me prisoner for the rest of my life” card. After that, the money practically fell into her hands.

She also said her goodbyes to Carver and Bethany, but she doesn’t dwell on it. Dwelling would mean she considered dying a possibility—and that was the last thing she wanted to think of.

And finally, she had to meet Bartrand.

Bartrand called her “human” a lot, which she found distasteful. It wasn’t as though she wanted to be a human. She would have chosen to be a dragon if she could, but the Maker had other plans for her.

The coin she offered and Varric’s smooth talking appeased him quite successfully. Varric also conveniently “forgot” to mention that she was a Circle mage on the run.

Then she was finally in on the expedition.

 

“They should have hired better people” was the predominant thought on her mind as she lay on her back, squinting up at the ceiling of the Deep Roads. Every inch of her body screamed in pain. It was the result of having an ogre ram straight into her, which wouldn’t have happened if the warrior they brought along had done his job properly, though admittedly nobody could do their job properly once their dead.

The world trembling around her as the ogre charged at her again coaxed her into pushing past her protesting muscles to stumble onto her feet and out of its way. She barely had time to send out a blast of ice before the ugly thing recovered and made its way towards her _again_.

Now cornered by a Hurlock and the ogre, she quickly reached into her pouch for a lyrium potion—that wasn’t there.

So _this_ is how she was going to die. There was a lot more Darkspawn and a lot less family than she anticipated.

The whole life flashing before your eyes bit was a lie, she realized. She barely had time for last thoughts before the ogre was already hovering over her. His arm swung behind him and she tensed up, bracing for impact.

Varric’s beautiful voice shouting “Hawke!” was accompanied by the even more beautiful sound of Bianca firing.

Two dead Darkspawn and one _exceedingly_ grateful Hawke later, Varric, her _savior_ , whistled, “I have to admit— _that_ was some of my finest shooting.”

“Oh, Maker bless you Varric.” Spurred on by adrenaline and what she would later claim to be stupidity, she ran to his side and cupped his face with both her hands. “You _brilliant_ dwarf, you.”

“Hawke?—” And then she kissed him smack on the lips.

…Oh.

She pulled away seconds later once she realized what she had done.

Now to let go of his face and stop gazing into his eyes.

  1. _Any_ moment now.



“Uh.” Varric said.

Her hands were removed from his face slowly. Could she make it any worse? Well, yes, she _could_ stab him.

Varric was now staring at her like he finally realized what a fool she was. Maybe not—she couldn’t tell what expression he wore when she was preoccupied looking _anywhere_ but him.

“Lovely place this is. All that rock and darkspawn.” She cleared her throat and dusted her robes. “Lovely.”

“Right. Uh.”

Make, she knew she must have done something wrong when _Varric_ ran out of words to say.

This would probably be the only time Marian is ever grateful for Bartrand suddenly barging in and yelling at corpses about their incompetency.

 

It had been written in the middle of one of Bethany’s letters, “Sister, do you likeVarric?”

In the first draft of her reply, Marian wrote no. Absolutely not. Varric was just good company. Don’t get her wrong though. He is a very dashing dwarf, _and_ he’s funny. That’s all you really need in a person. Just the other day he told her this joke that began “Three Lay Sisters walked into a brothel—”

In the second draft, she wrote maybe. Maybe she did like Varric a little bit, but any possibility of them being anything more than friends died with Bianca. She tried to bring a relationship between them up once jokingly and he joked back and said humans aren’t his type. She couldn’t tell if he was joking-serious like she was or just _joking_ -joking—

In the third draft, Marian wrote about how Camiel, one of her apprentices, finally managed to shoot lightning out of his staff. How neat was that? Very.

Somehow, Marian’s silence spoke volume’s more to Bethany than she thought possible, because Bethany wrote in the next letter, “I would like to meet Varric.”

And Marian arranged that meeting.

In hindsight, she should have stopped those feelings there. The one rule Marian was confident she could follow was the “no falling in love” rule. She thought she had no interest in that matter—not that she _loved_ Varric, per say. She just… liked him a great deal. That’s all.

Then she went along and kissed him.

She spent the night tossing and turning, despite her groaning muscles and how uncomfortable the stone floor was. Whenever sleep claimed even a corner of her mind, it wandered back to the moment, back to how her heart beat straight into chest, how warm his face felt in her hands, how he stared into her eyes but _didn’t pull away_.

That had to count for something, right?

Ugh. A perfectly good friendship and she had to go do something like _that_.

Well, Varric did a very good job at pretending it didn’t happen. She would just have to do the same.

 

It could have been anybody, Varric kept telling himself. Hell, if Bartrand swooped in and saved her life, she probably would have kissed him too—okay. He cringed. Let’s not dwell on that image.

No offense to Hawke—on that note, it took him awhile to come up with her nickname. Chuckles was a given. She found just about a million things to talk and laugh about. He eventually settled on “Hawke” though. She might be Marian Amell in name but she was Marian Hawke in spirit. Her father meant a great deal to her, and she was pretty tickled when he began calling her Hawke. You should have seen the way her eyes lit up—

_Anyway_ , no offense to Hawke, but she was a tad on the awkward side. The many years she spent in the Circle did little for her socially. Maybe she didn’t learn anything about personal space—there were rumors that mages got _real_ friendly in the Circle.

Shit, she evenstraddled him when they first met.

That kiss? It couldn’t have meant anything. Nah.

It also didn’t mean anything that he would willingly go through it again.

 

Neither of them thought the templars were crazy enough to chase Marian into the Deep Roads, of all places, but they quickly learned Knight-Commander Meredith was just a whole new _tier_ of crazy.

It happened the moment they stumbled upon an eerie idol made of lyrium that glowed red. They turned to see Bartrand and the Knight-Commander _herself_ at the doorway, along with her templar entourage.

Varric was the first to speak, “Well, shit.”

“Marian Hawke.” Meredith said, cold and harsh.

“First _and_ last name? You sound like my mother.”

That comment was brushed aside, “You have a decision to make.”

“Do I really?” Marian might be smiling, but there was nothing warm in her tone. “How generous of you.”

“Return to the Circle and see to your proper punishment.” Meredith unsheathed her blade. “Or die here.”

Her answer came in the form of a fireball, which was quickly followed by a hail of arrows.

 

At no point did Varric think to himself that he should get out of there. Go and leave Marian behind? Not happening—even if the situation was to kill or be killed by one of the figureheads of Kirkwall.

After most of the templars were either dead or incapacitated, Varric aimed Bianca at Meredith’s wrist. The arrow bounced right off her armor, but the force was enough to make her sword fly right out of her grasp.

Marian took this opportunity to jab her staff directly below Meredith’s chin.

He’d have to remember to make up something dramatic for Meredith’s last words. It later turned out neither of them heard her _actual_ last words over the sound of dying templars and Marian setting her on fire.

Still, this was going to make a _hell_ of a story.

 

The phylactery that kept Marian prisoner for so long burned away with Meredith, so Marian used the money she gained from the expedition for other purposes. She gave her mother a large amount. Anybody who tried to touch Bethany would have to dig past a mountain of gold first. All the best too, since Marian couldn’t watch over them in Kirkwall anymore. The rest of the money would be used to fund her escape from her Kirkwall.

Killing the Knight-Commander made her infamous—every templar in Kirkwall knew her name now. They even put wanted posters up. This upset Marian greatly—they got her nose _completely_ wrong. She went ahead and fixed some of it for them. Some did argue that Meredith’s death was for the best, but that did little to assuage the templar’s rage.

All was fine though. She planned to look for her father anyway.

 

It happened after she said all her goodbyes.

“Wait,” Varric said, and he knew he was crazy for saying it. “Don’t go.”

“Varric?” She turned to look at him, more surprised than displeased.

_“Hawke.”_ His voice came out a lot more desperate than he intended. What he wanted to tell her was that maybe he could figure something else out, that he thought she was stupid for going to the Free Marches alone, that maybe that kiss didn’t mean anything to her but it might have meant something to him.

Instead, he just said, “Don’t get dead.”

She smiled, “Well I’ve done a good job at that for the past twenty-something years. I’ll be fine. You too, Varric. Don’t get dead.”

Then she was gone.

 

Afterwards, his life returned to normal, though now both he and Bartrand were considerably richer than before after selling the red lyrium idol. It didn’t really matter to Varric—he enjoyed the cheaper pleasures of life, like spinning stories in a tavern full of people. Even if Marian wasn’t here in person, she was still here in his stories—his _highly_ exaggerated stories. Really, it was her fault for not being here to correct him.

“Then she, I shit you not, breathed _fire_. The hot flames nipped at and licked the Knight-Commander’s—” That was the precise moment he noticed Bethany and Carver among his crowd of listeners. He shut right up. “Okay, let’s wrap this up for today.”

After the crowd dissipated, Carver asked, “Why do you make it sound like Meredith and my sister were lovers?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Junior.” Varric lied. “Drinks? It’s on me.”

It took a round of drinks and idle chatter before they got to the heart of the matter—or Bethany did.

“So, when are you going to chase after my sister?”

Varric nearly dropped his glass, “What? I’m not—”

“You know she fancies you, right?”

Good thing he placed his glass on the table before Carver said that, “She _what_?”

What was this—a pincer attack? This is why he never got along with nobles. They did their fighting with words. He preferred physical damage of psychological damage.

“She even wrote _me_ about you.” Carver shook his head. “As if I care.”

“You _do_ care.” Bethany corrected. “You too, Varric. I know you care a great deal about my sister. I just want you to know you have my—and Carver’s—full support.”

“Speak for yourself!”

Varric didn’t even need to ask how she knew. It’s been four months and the only stories he enjoyed telling were about a certain missing apostate in his life.

“Alright, Sunshine. You got me. How do I find her?”

Bethany smiled, “If you’re anything like my sister said you are. You’ll find a way.”

 

Of all the rude awakenings Hawke has had in her life, _this_ was…

Surprising? Quite pleasant? A little bit of column A and a little bit of column B?

She was not above admitting that being pinned down by a dwarf was fairly agreeable. Though she didn’t know if she would have such a favorable reaction if it were any other dwarf above her.

“Fortunately for both you and me, I had to find you.” Varric said smugly.

First, she laughed. Then she placed her hands on his face, leaned forward, and kissed him.


End file.
